


Coincidence... and Fate

by UrbanAmazon



Category: The Mummy (1999)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Canon, F/M, Gen, Humour, What-If?, a little fast and loose with egyptian architecture in a fictional lost city, canon-divergent, what if rick was a medjai?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-20 18:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17028147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UrbanAmazon/pseuds/UrbanAmazon
Summary: What if Rick had been a medjai from the start?  One decision sets the adventure in motion, but the thing about decisions is that there's always more than one option to choose.  Some things unfold differently, yes, but some manage to fall into place like the tumblers on a puzzle-box key, turning round and round until things go click.





	1. Ardeth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zilentdreamer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zilentdreamer/gifts).



_Hamunaptra, 1923_

 

The ten black-clothed horsemen on the ridge looked down over the desert flats, much like the statues of gods long lost.  Below, a single French Foreign Legion soldier with a sand-scoured uniform and empty guns stumbled forth; every few steps, he looked back over his shoulder at the ruined city in his wake, as if he expected something unseen to be chasing him.

“And what of this one?  Should we kill him?”

The easy thing, the cruel thing, would be to leave him to the harsh and unfeeling desert; it was no more and no less than they’d done to the other straggling survivors.  If they managed to return to civilization (for it was always _if_ ), they would do so as weathered and withered shells, and their haunted tales of treasure in dead cities would only be the babbling of deserters and madmen… _if_ they spoke of it at all.  Ardeth Bay knew this, for it was the duty of a Medjai to provide certainty, constant as the obelisks amid the churning, changing sands.  He could look upon the bedraggled shape of the lone Legionnaire stumbling away from Hamunaptra and know that the desert would take care of such a loose end, and Ardeth would never see the man again.  

But Ardeth hesitated.  It would be easy, and it would be cruel, for it was easy to be cruel.  Over the last ten years, there had been many cruel men in the desert, and many of them from lands far beyond Egypt’s borders.  From the shadows and the more subtle placements of Medjai agents, Ardeth had heard more accents in ten years than his grandfathers had heard in their lifetime.  He’d seen the hard lines of the railroads creeping further into the desert, seen the flags of distant countries on the horizon and heard the far-off rumblings of strange contraptions soaring through the unbroken blue sky.  Egypt had changed… and was still changing.

Hamunaptra’s stones had fallen with the sands and been buried with time.  The dead bodies of Tuaregs and Legionnaires would join them. Perhaps nothing was as constant as they wished be.  Perhaps in some other life, he would leave this man to the desert’s whim and be content with the consequences, but he was in this life, and Ardeth’s path was clear: if change was certain, then Ardeth would control that certainty, too.

“He has seen the Creature’s resting place.  Follow him until he drops for water, then bring him to our camp.”  This Legionnaire was not a coward, nor an imbecile, for all that he’d followed one.  He would be shown the gravity of the Medjai’s task, and he would join them in it.

And if he would not… then there was always the desert.      


	2. Rick

_Three years later_

 

“You _have_ realized we’re on the wrong side of the river, yes?”  

It was the little things, really, that helped Rick O’Connell get through the day.  It wasn’t that he actively disliked Abderrahim, but the man was terrible at conversation and had a face like a camel sucking on a lemon.  He also had a claw -- a _claw_ for a hand, like some sort of dryland pirate.  Rick wasn’t sure if Abderrahim hated him; he tended to make that sneering sort of face at everyone, Rick included, but Rick was the only one in the whole troop of Medjai that made his eye twitch like that.  

It wasn’t that Rick didn’t like Abderrahim, either.  As a matter of fact, Abderrahim’s conversational prowess and stony scowl reminded Rick very much of Alfredo, his old Legion quartermaster.  It served as one of a few touchstones, layering over yet another far-flung chapter of his life like a star map; weapon, regiment, and comrades.  The place changed, and the language, and… well. Whether the _mission_ was a familiar thing or not remained to be seen.  

On the far side of the Nile, the bustling Giza port resembled a kicked anthill in its activity as the riverboat _Sudan_ prepared for its departure that afternoon.  Somewhere in the crush of pith helmets and fezzes, a handful of American adventurers had been chattering far too enthusiastically about an expedition to the lost city of Hamunaptra.  On top of that, the Medjai agent at the Cairo Museum of Antiquities had sent word of a worrying artifact being seen in the hands of someone who was, and Rick was quoting him, ‘destructively curious’.  So Rick and Abderrahim sat on their horses in the shade of the palms on the far bank, passing their old field telescope and their waterskin back and forth, keeping watch.

“We’re going to have to either get on the _Sudan_ ourselves, or meet the reed boats upriver.  Both of which are on _that_ side of the river.”  The Americans had been easy to spot, with their pet academic overseeing the loading of their equipment and hired help, his umbrella bobbing along like some self-declared emperor with scepter.  Unlike any of the four previous adventuring parties that had attempted finding Hamunaptra over the last three years (all to ignoble ends), Rick had to admit this one had the funds and the firepower to possibly see it through.  

Whether or not the ‘destructively curious’ party caught this boat or the next one, Rick had deemed them a lower priority.  

Abderrahim scowled, and thrust the telescope at Rick to trade.  Rick gave him the waterskin, and lifted the telescope to his eye.

The problem that Rick O’Connell was much too wise to ever voice out loud to his fellow Medjai was that sometimes they were a little _too_ like his old Legionnaires, in that they _believed_.  That much had become obvious right around the time he’d recovered from the parched delirium of exposure, and been deemed healthy enough to hear their proposition without mistaking it for a bad dream: sacred bodyguards, eternal protectors, city of the dead, terrible creature, curse, and conscription.

He’d been completely ready to thank them for the water and head right back into the desert but for two things.  First, it was not stated but heavily implied that this was a command and not an offer, and second… Rick _remembered_.  He remembered the whispers just beyond his hearing as he stared at the jackal-headed statue, and the way the sand had leaped for him, grasping like a hundred clawing hands.  He could still feel the cold sense of _wrong_ in the pit of his stomach which had sent him running from Hamunaptra instead of picking through the bodies for anything that might help with the long journey back to civilization.  

So he’d said yes.  Granted, he’d joined the _Legion d’Etranger_ for the goal of impressing a girl, so it wasn’t as if this was the rashest decision he’d ever made.   

The problem remained that Colonel Guizot had promised treasure and glory to a garrison of Legionnaires if they would but march into the desert with him, and Ardeth Bay promised there was evil out under the sand, and _any_ action was justified to keep it buried.  In the three years he’d ridden with the Medjai, Rick had traded his brown _veste_ for layers of black _thobe_ and _bisht_ , his pistols for a sword at his hip, his fluent French for mostly-passable Arabic, he wore the three-pointed tattoos on the back of both hands, rode shoulder-to-shoulder with the other Medjai without hesitation, he did the _job_... but he still wasn’t sure he believed.  

For that, Abderrahim wore the Medjai’s traditional tattoos below each eye, and Rick did not.  

Aside from the Americans, the rest of the _Sudan’s_ passengers were a predictable lot.  Through the telescope’s tiny lens, Rick picked out a trio of well-to-do local horse magnates in Western-styled suits, several local merchants, and a smattering of tourists.  The stevedores hurried madly under the hot sun, and street children dashed from one possible target to the nex--

Rick blinked.  He leaned back from the telescope for a moment, then had to search the crowd to find the sight again; a broad sun hat on a head of tightly-pinned brunette curls, a heart-shaped face, and delicate eyebrows angled down in an expression of skepticism.  The woman was pacing her little bit of claimed space at the dock, speaking to a skinny reed of a man with a pith helmet and khaki trousers. Another pair of tourists, perhaps… except she wore several sensibly light layers in the heat as a local would.  A book in one hand and a small stack of trunks by her side; maybe an artist, or a researcher… except the man was eyeing the passing businessmen’s pockets passing by much like the street children might.

Hm.  The instincts that had kept Rick alive so far had only grown sharper over the last three years.  At his side, Abderrahim grunted for the telescope, but Rick ignored him.

The telescope wasn’t good enough for Rick to read their lips, but Rick made do.  Annoyance, in the set of the woman’s shoulders and her pacing. Impatience, when she glanced repeatedly at the riverboat.  Placation from the man, palms down in a gesture that did nothing to calm her. A child scurried up to the man to beg a coin, but was shooed away; Rick did _not_ miss the way the man put a hand over a jacket pocket afterward, the way a person did if that pocket carried an item… or artifact... of particular value.   _Hm_.

Abderrahim grunted again.  The waterskin sloshed as he gave it an imperious shake at Rick.

The woman and man turned as one -- another person had approached them, but not a begging child; from behind, Rick saw a familiar shade of brown in the jacket, and the sheen of brass buttons at the top of each epaulet.  He saw the diagonal slash of polished leather leading to the gun belt. He adjusted the focus of the telescope just as the new arrival turned and showed a face Rick had last seen abandoning two hundred gullible and doomed Legionnaires at Hamunaptra.  

Colonel Guizot.

Now, Rick O’Connell did not consider himself to be a particularly vengeful person, which, he realized, was a little ironic, considering his current employment.  He preferred the parts of his personality that could be termed ‘direct’, or ‘efficient’, or, in a pinch, ‘stubborn’. These were traits that had kept him alive through a great many questionable adventures, and tended to be recognized by those around him, possibly even trusted.  

Of course, a great many of those around him still got killed, despite their trust, and despite Rick trying to live up to it.  

Rick did not do guilt.  Would not. In Rick’s eyes, things happened, either good or bad, and he made the best of the situation, trying to get through to the next day, and then preferably the one after that.  It was a mindset that had served him rather well in a lonely childhood, kept him mostly unscathed in a youth peppered with scathing events (some that might have been deliberate, to a point), and it made for comfortable soldiering for the most part.  Neither his fellow Legionnaires nor his fellow Medjai had harbored any illusions about the safety of their respective roles. In a life full of very real dangers, there was no time for guilt.

From this, he hadn’t really ever blamed Colonel Guizot for deserting his garrison to their doom like the selfish coward Rick and many others had suspected him to be.  The man had just been trying to survive. Reprioritizing in the face of new information. He’d been a realist.

Rick hadn’t blamed him at all.

Until right.  

About.   

 _Now_.

The tipping point of it all was watching the woman give a prim nod, and the man at her side pat his pocket protectively, and Colonel Guizot smile that same patronizing smile Rick remembered all too well, the one that had said _worth the risk_ and _imagine the glory_ and _hang your orders, this is too important to wait_.  The Colonel had not changed, even with two hundred souls on his conscience.  Rick couldn’t imagine him hesitating even for a moment at the thought of sacrificing two more.

And despite Rick’s lack of truly _believing_ , despite the questionable or downright illegal things he’d chosen to do in his life, that was just not _right_.

With a snap of the telescope and a sharp whistle to his horse, Rick left Abderrahim still holding the waterskin, scowling furiously and no doubt holding up his claw in a rude gesture.  Rick did not look back. The reed boats were an hour’s ride upriver. As soon as it was dark, Rick was getting on the _Sudan_.  


	3. Evelyn

The _Sudan_ chugged steadily through the night, so smoothly that Evelyn Carnahan barely felt the boat’s sway.  The breeze carried only faint scents of camel and horse through her open cabin window, mixed with the cigarettes from the lounge area on the deck, and the heat of the day slowly eased into a comfortably cool evening.  It was all rather lovely, if one had a mind to sit and appreciate a good book by candlelight in her cabin.

Unfortunately, in Evelyn’s case, her stack of good books now numbered a half-dozen, and at this rate would either run out of candles or read all the way through to the dawn.  Worse yet, she was no closer to unravelling the mystery of the dratted little puzzle-box than she’d been when her brother first waved it under her nose. She slapped shut the cover of her much-battered _The Egyptian Sudan, Its History and Monuments_ and muttered an unkind word about Egyptologists that mishandled opinions as if they were proven fact.  It had been a long shot, trying that volume; it certainly mentioned Pharaoh Seti I, but seemed much more interested in what he’d done for gold _mining_ during his reign, and said nothing of Hamunaptra.

One day, Evelyn was _certain_ of it, one day the archaeological world would no longer fawn over every word of Sir Wallis Budge as if he’d carved the Rosetta stone himself.    

She rose up from her chair with both hands on her lower back.  It was well past dinner time and the idea of venturing out onto the deck to stretch her legs did not appeal in the slightest.  Perhaps it was late enough that she should just prepare for bed; the riverboat would reach their port before midday, and it was going to be a long two days by horseback into the desert, if their guide, the retired legionnaire, was to be believed.  Evelyn would certainly need the sleep.

There was time enough for Evelyn to properly brush out her hair after she’d changed into her nightdress.  Normally, it was a calming sort of ritual for her, a way to smooth out all of her tangled thoughts from the day instead of writing them down in a diary… possibly because a diary was too much like a book, and would keep her from sleeping at all.  Normally, a hundred strokes would take Evelyn right to the point of sleep but this time, every pass of the brush felt like a handful of sand being thrown back over the puzzle box. She glared at its reflection in the mirror; it sat on the table in front of her reading chair, in the shadow of her stack of _useless_ books, mocking her with its mystery.  The annoyance boiled over with a particularly angry jerk of the brush through a tangle, and the brush slipped from her fingers to tumble on the floor.

“Oh, for heaven’s _sake_.”  She was behaving like a silly schoolgirl.  Evelyn stooped to fetch the brush from where it fell.

When Evelyn stood back up, there was _someone else_ in the mirror behind her!  In her _cabin_!  Tall, wrapped in black layers of desert clothes, long sword on a belt, and pistols, and... blue eyes.  “ _Where is th--_ ”

That was all Evey managed to notice before she reflexively turned and smacked the intruder clear across the face with the back of her paddle brush.  

The intruder staggered back with a surprised grunt.  It wasn’t enough to dislodge the scarf tucked tightly across his face, but he put his hand on his long sword as he straightened up, as if she were now considered a threat, and that was enough to keep Evelyn from screaming aloud.  

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he rumbled, in a voice that sounded - American?  

Not that she particularly felt like believing him.  Evelyn clutched the brush to her chest and desperately wished she was not standing in the middle of her cabin in nothing but her nightdress.  

“Hand over the map, and no one will get hurt.”

Evelyn reflexively glanced over at her bed, where the map had been spread out to study.  Inside, she winced. They _needed_ the map.  

“And the key.  Give me the key, and I’ll leave.”

“The… the key?  What key?” Evelyn frowned, and paused.  Tumblers and cogs clicked together like the gears of the puzzle box, opening and folding together. “Wait, it’s a _key_?  That’s what it is?  Oooh, I knew it!” Of course it was a _key_ : there was no reason to stick a map to a hidden city inside some… some ornamental cosmetic box, too small to be some locked safe, too large to be some subtle piece of jewelry.  There were many other ways to safely store fragile papyrus, and of course it would make sense to have such a thing erased from any reference, so that it could not be _replicated_ by those not loyal to Seti.  

Hang the threats, hang the sword, and hang the fear shivering down Evelyn’s spine.  If this was how she had to find answers, if _this_ was something that could make the Bembridge scholars sit up and _read_ her next application, then she was going to _do_ it.  She snatched up the puzzle box from its hiding place by the books and clutched it tightly to her chest, then all but lunged forward, brandishing the brush threateningly.  “Tell me what it opens! Did this belong to Seti? Is it a key _to_ Hamunaptra?”     

The masked intruder didn’t step back, but those blue eyes widened and blinked in a very universal sign of confusion, like a jackal being charged by a kitten.  “Wait--”

“To a single building, or door?  Or for a particular item hidden there?  Something _important_?” She raised the hairbrush for emphasis, and this time he _did_ take a step back, not that he had very much room in the cabin to do it in.  He bumped back into the wall, and that sword of his still hadn’t left his belt.  

“How do you even know about the map and the key?  Your voice… you’re American. Are you _with_ those boorish Americans?  How did you get into my room?”  Questions had always been Evelyn’s strength.  All of her fear was evaporating. She swatted him in the chest with the flat side of her brush, right where the gun belts made an X.  “I will have you thrown off this boat, you cad!”

“ _Lady_ , look--”

Her next strike hit him squarely on the knuckles holding that sword, and _hard_ .  He yelped and jerked his hand back.  He tried reaching with the left hand instead, and Evelyn raised the brush warningly until he froze.  “No! _You_ look.  If you… if you were _really_ the sort of person who would kill me for the map, then I think you would have done it already.”

The man, with all his swords and weapons bristling over his person, all the black hiding his face but for those blue eyes - flinched.  

Evelyn’s fear flittered away completely.  She slowly lowered the brush, but kept the puzzle-box-key close to her chest in a white-knuckled grip.  “Now… if you’re not going to give me any answers, then… then I’m not going to give you the map to Hamunaptra.  Or the key. So you are going to leave this cabin, the way you came in. If you don’t, or if I so much as see your face again, then I’ll… I’ll scream, and call the attention of any number of people here with a great many guns.  I think you’re not the sort of person that would want that, either.”

The stalemate held for a long moment, tense and unhappy.  Evelyn’s palm prickled with sweat around her hairbrush’s smooth handle--

The soft knock at her cabin door made them both jump.  “Evy? Are you asleep already?”

Evelyn drew herself up haughtily and kept her voice low.  “My brother is _one_ of them.”  It was not _entirely_ a bluff.  Not that Jonathan carried a gun at all, but he certainly knew how to use one, and his many trophies had the shine almost fully buffed off.  “So. Are you going to leave or do I scream?”

The intruder’s eyes narrowed, weighing his options.  

Another knock.  “Evy? Come on, put down the book and open the door.”

When the intruder left through Evelyn’s open window and into the night, he didn’t make so much as a sound.  Evelyn didn’t hear boots meeting the deck, or even a splash. She let out such a deep breath she felt lightheaded, then scrambled to shut the window and lock it.  “Coming, Jonathan!”


	4. Rick

“What have you got yourself into?”

The camels stared at Rick, unimpressed and bored.  They did not give him an answer.

It was easy to hide in the animal section of the _Sudan_.  Most of the grooms, either with the boat or the ones that the passengers hired to come with them, were local, and dressed similar enough to his own.  Rick pulled the cloth from his face and breathed in the earthy presence of fresh hay, animal hair, dung, and feed. It cleared his head, a little; cleared it of the lingering smell of perfume from the cabin.

What the _hell_ had he got himself into?  He’d had a simple job, a _simple_ job, no violence needed, just get the map and the key and all would be perfect, the secret of Hamunaptra would be secure.  

Instead, he’d been chased away by a bookworm in a nightgown with a hairbrush, named Evy.

Well.  If Rick was being honest with himself, that wasn’t completely true.  

 _If you were_ really _the sort of person who would kill me for the map, then I think you would have done it already…._

If it had been _any_ other Medjai, if it had been Abderrahim, or Ardeth, or Dr. Bey, Rick was sure they would have.  Another innocent person, just one more lost in the long and distant war the Medjai continued to fight, and Rick?  Rick was one of the people supposed to be holding the sword. Supposed to be.

But Rick had looked right into those wide brown eyes, fearful but _fiery_ and pinning him to the wall with all those questions… and _no_.  No, Rick might have done more than his share of questionable things, but he desperately did not want to be _that_ sort of person.  Defense, yes. Murder, no.  Not for the Legion, not for the Medjai, _never_.  There had to be another way, a way that didn’t get Evy killed.  Rick was going to find it.

Not that it was immediately coming to mind.  Yet. “Come on, Rick.” He paced the length of the camel stall.  “Think. Think. Think.”

He’d managed to argue with the other Medjai that he be the first to infiltrate the boat, on the account that he could get closest to Colonel Guizot, but the man’s cabin was empty, forcing Rick to seek  the map and key elsewhere. Guizot was at the lounge deck, drinking and smoking with the group of Americans, completely out Rick’s reach. If he did not find some way to stymie the whole operation soon, the other Medjai would take matters into their own hands.  The whole situation had him rather on-edge, and the smartly swelling bruise beside his right eye only served to aggravate his mood. He paced and he paced, and when he turned and heard a surprised little yelp that was definitely _not_ a camel, he might have reacted a little harshly.  He lunged, grasped the shape of a crouching figure by the bales of hay, and yanked the eavesdropper into the light and into the very close proximity of his quickly-drawn revolver.

“Rick _O’Connell_?  My friend, is that you?”  

The nasal, weaselly voice shrilled right through both of Rick’s eardrums and pinned him to the spot.  He squinted in the stable’s low light. “... _Beni_?”

“My friend!  It is a miracle!”  It said something, maybe, that Private First Class Beni Gabor had not changed much in three years.  The desert had left utterly no mark on his skinny, gangly frame; Rick had always assumed it had something to do with the greasiness that clung to him, body and soul.  There was but a single change; instead of the Legionnaire uniform Rick had last seen, Beni wore a collection of barely-respectable mismatched layers and a crooked red fez.  He threw his arms wide as if he were going hug Rick in delight, without care for the gun pointed on his person. “Oh, Rick. I have been so worried, my friend. I thought you were dead, I mourned, I couldn’t sleep for weeks--”

Rick glanced uncomfortably at the camels on either side of them.  Beni hadn’t got quieter in three years, either. He gave Beni a warning shake.  “Some _mourning_ ,” he hissed.  “You slammed a stone door in my face, _buddy_.”

“But I felt _quite_ terrible about it.”  

It wasn’t at all hard to imagine how Beni survived the massacre at Hamunaptra; scavenged the corpses for waterskins, probably, maybe caught a lost horse once the Tuaregs had fled.  In the Legion, Beni carried the reputation of being, well, resourceful, one way or another. Finding things and then surviving whatever chaos managed to follow; a shared trait, one that had brought the two of them together as something like friends, though Beni carried notably fewer… compunctions than Rick, and much more flexibility of terms.  It wasn’t as if Rick had missed Beni’s company. Or not thought about punching him right in the pencil-thin mustache for abandoning Rick in a firefight.

On second thought, perhaps Rick had missed Beni after all.  “What the hell are you doing on this boat, Beni? And don’t lie.”

“I am merely travelling for business, my good friend.  And you?”

“ _Which_ business?”  Rick’s stomach twisted, and he jabbed the revolver a little more firmly into Beni’s sternum.  

“I am but a humble guide!” Beni yelped.  “An honest and humble guide earning measly pay for the sweat of my brow!”  There was a glitter in Beni’s eyes that Rick could read like semaphore.

“Let me guess.  Measly pay supplemented by whatever you can pick up when the people you’re guiding get lost in the desert, right?”

Beni’s shoulders slumped slightly.  “Well, most of the time. Americans are… clever.  Sometimes. No offense.”

Rick relaxed a fraction in kind.  At least Beni wasn’t with Guizot, then.  Small victories, which lifted Beni’s character a little in Rick’s eyes.  “None taken.”

Beni’s eyes flicked over Rick’s clothing and weapons.  And that was all Beni, too: soaking up all the details within his grasping reach, like scooping handfuls of sand just in case he might pick up diamonds or useful dirt.  “You look very different, Rick. And you’re also on this boat. Are you heading in the same direction, my friend? What is _your_ interest in Hamunaptra?”  

This was turning into the worst headache Rick could remember, including the time he’d tried drinking what the Medjai called wine.  He scowled and weighed his luck at to whether he could just fling Beni into the river. It wouldn’t kill Beni, but it would certainly improve Rick’s night.

Or.

“Beni, you know Colonel Guizot’s heading to Hamunaptra as well, don’t you?”

Beni’s mouth twisted, arcing that mustache in kind.  “I had to eat at the servant’s table to avoid him. It has made this trip… quite complicated.”

Oh, this could be a terrible idea.  A terrible, rash idea. But Rick didn’t have any others, and it wouldn’t be the first time a rash idea had been his only option.  He lifted his revolver and pointedly clicked the safety back into place. “Beni.” He smiled thinly, with too many teeth. “My friend.  I think we can come to an arrangement to complicate things right back.”


	5. Ardeth

“I can explain.”

Ardeth Bay had heard those words from Rick O’Connell far too many times over the last three years.  It was not even the first time O’Connell had said them while soaking wet and smelling of burnt fuel, with a few close-call bullet holes aerating his black robes.  

Ardeth took a deep breath, silently counting as high as he had the patience to count.  “Can you, now.” It was not a question.

By the time the main party of Medjai came within sight of the _Sudan_ in their reed boats, the fire that started in the cabin of one Colonel Guizot had spread to several surrounding cabins.  Grooms were dragging panicking horses and camels to the boat’s edge so they could leap into the water’s safety, the Americans had formed a chain to toss their trunks and gear toward the closer riverbank, and a few of the more well-off passengers were being guided to the sole rowboat off the starboard side by the porters.  It was chaos, but not such complete chaos that the Medjai could safely infiltrate the boat and make off with the stolen artefacts from the lost city. O’Connell, of course, had already been swimming toward them, and insisted they turn back before they were spotted in the much-too-bright gleam of the growing flames.

That moment, unfortunately, was right when the bespectacled American had spotted O’Connell _and_ the reed boats, and started up an angered cry of ‘saboteur’, followed by an enthusiastic hail of bullets.

Three Medjai had been shot, though not seriously, before they’d managed to get to the far side of the river.  Abderrahim had lost his favorite claw.

Ardeth had heard the report, but had yet to hear an appropriate explanation of such a disaster.  He was _still_ waiting.

O’Connell cleared his throat and reached for the most formal Arabic words he could offer, as if manners could make his situation less fraught.  “The way I see it, the Americans and the other two are not our main concern. They’re not a threat to the safety of the lost city.”

Ardeth’s eyebrows inched up so sharply his turban twitched.  He tried counting silently, again, and did not reach as high a number as before.  “Are they.”

“They’re... naive.  Curious. But that’s all.  We need to focus our efforts on the Legion Colonel.  He’s greedy, and a coward, and won’t stop dragging more people into Hamunaptra until he’s satisfied.”  There was a faint twitch in O’Connell’s expression, one that Ardeth knew he would not forget. It took a moment for O’Connell to be calm enough to continue speaking.  “So we... _I_ made a plan.  It’s a good plan.”

Ardeth counted to _three_ before he had to clench his hands into fists and breathe through his nose.  Around his tent, the Medjai camp was still bustling with activity in late morning, taking advantage of the night’s lingering coolness.  Soon the sun would be high and blazing, and travel would be both brutal and necessary. All of the Medjai had hoped the issue could be resolved without having to travel to Hamunaptra, but all signs were pointing toward a long trek across the desert and, most likely, a need for ammunition and larger numbers to execute more stringent intimidation tactics.  Which was, he was now being informed, _according to plan_.  

“O’Connell,” Ardeth finally sighed, “do you know why I decided to take you into our brotherhood?  Why I trusted you with the sacred duty of defending the Creature’s resting place?”

His adopted Medjai did not answer; perhaps he’d not lost all his sense just yet.

“I believed, then, that we needed you, O’Connell.  We are an ancient order, defending an ancient creature, from a world that is becoming less and less ancient.  I have grown to count on you for insight into the minds of those not from these lands, who have taken it upon themselves to bring their ways here as a… gift.  As if ‘discovering’ something that was built millennia ago is some great favor to the world. And you _have_ been helpful.”  

Ardeth paused.  He hardened his glower, even though he’d never managed to make O’Connell look away first.  “But at every turn, you seek to ignore what truths the Medjai have spent centuries learning.  You spurn the aid of your fellow Medjai and go off alone. You speak our words and say our prayers, but you say them hollowly.  You flaunt our holy cause as if it is something to _be_ flaunted.  You do not _believe_.”  

It was at this point that Ardeth’s rage always faded, like a torch blown low in the desert wind.  Now, he was only disappointed. O’Connell had learned quickly, adapted to the life of the Medjai, and did not shirk the duties Ardeth assigned, but always with the sense of impermanence.  O’Connell was a Medjai… but only _for now_.  

To the Medjai, _all_ Medjai, from the time of Seti to the present, that was just a slap in the face.

“So… I ask of you, O’Connell.  What. Plan.”

O’Connell cleared his throat and sniffled a little bit of river water.  “We convince Colonel Guizot that he’s cursed.”

This time, Ardeth couldn’t even get to _one_ , but O’Connell was talking again before Ardeth could erupt.  “The Colonel is the sort of coward that won’t be deterred from the prize of Hamunaptra, even with hundreds of dead bodies on his conscience, if he has one at all.  So long as he has breath in his body, he will throw every resource in his reach between himself and any obstacles, any patrols, anything we put in his way. He won’t stop.  And if he is _killed_ in the middle of some grand adventure, with multiple witnesses, he becomes more wood on the fire for the legend of Hamunaptra and the treasure-seekers will just.  Keep. Coming.”

“It doesn’t matter.  The Medjai will always be there to guard the Creature.”

O’Connell’s face darkened.  “Guard the creature, yes. Not _murder_ people who could otherwise be convinced to leave Hamunaptra alone.”

It was not the first time O’Connell had slung that word at Ardeth with such vehemence.  After three years, it had not ceased to leave a faint sting. Ardeth crossed his arms. “So you wish to create a _second_ curse?”

O’Connell smiled, and it was not a kind smile.  “That’s the thing about us westerners. We _love_ curses.  It doesn’t matter if they’re real.”  

Here it came, is it did every time.  O’Connell might not have been a believer, but he was not an idiot either.  Ardeth heaved a deep, heavy sigh. “So. Instead of recovering the key and map, you set fire to the Colonel’s cabin… to foster the idea that he is cursed, and discredit him among any others that might see him as credible as far as Hamunaptra is concerned.”

The smile broadened, and O’Connell spread his hands.  “Exactly! It’s like something I played once in Tripoli with Izzy.  We harass from the sidelines, don’t divert Guizot but slow him down, inconvenience him.   _Suggest_ the influence of a curse.  Keep him distracted, which will make it easier fo--... easier to acquire the key.  Once we do, it doesn’t matter whether they find Hamunaptra or not; there will be no way to unlock _anything_.”    

The small hesitation did not slip Ardeth’s attention.  “If we are not to interfere directly with the Colonel’s approach to Hamunaptra, how does this plan of yours include acquiring the key?”

“I have… someone on the inside.”

“And are they trustworthy?”

O’Connell twitched.  

Ardeth’s headache grew exponentially.


	6. Evelyn

The city of Hamunaptra was more than Evelyn could have dreamed.  To see it glistening in the rising sun took her breath away, with molten gold gilding long-lost pillars in cradles made of sand dunes.  The age, the thousands of years carved into the architecture with wind and sand as certainly as any hammer and chisel, and yet still stubbornly there, no matter what the Sahara had decreed in absence of the long-silent gods.  From her perch at the highest rise of the outcropping that made the eastern wall, Evelyn adjusted her hat and returned to her careful scribbling.

She was not so high up that she couldn’t pick out the individual people scattered throughout the leaning obelisks and half-buried structures.  The Americans had pitched their tents closest to the main walls, as if setting up a bazaar. Their hired porters scuttled to and fro, still unloading and sorting all the gear they’d brought by horseback.  It was a little like ants, really, and Evelyn couldn’t help a feeling of anxiety at so many feet trampling hither and thither. There was such a risk that something valuable could be tripped over, or broken… but, grudgingly, there was certainly safety in numbers.  

Evelyn glanced over either shoulder, but there were no black-robed strangers anywhere to be seen.  There was Jonathan, sitting much too upright on a little stool with a borrowed rifle in his arms, and Evelyn did have to feel some reassurance at that, even if she did have to put up with his chatter as a consequence.  

“... and it’s not like the Americans are _all_ bad, Evy.  They have no integrity for cards, I’ll say that much, but it’s not like they can’t see reason.”  Jonathan adjusted his pith helmet and squinted down at the city. “Though I still don’t know why they bothered to keep that weasel of a guide after all that hullabaloo he raised on the boat.  ‘You are cursed’ this and ‘this expedition is cursed’ that….”

“Mister Gabor is merely a businessman trying to keep his customers, Jonathan.  I’m sure he was only attempting to keep from having to share his fee with another guide.”  Though it hadn’t helped Evelyn’s proposal to the Colonel that they pool their resources with the American group.  

What a troublesome conversation _that_ had been.  On the draughty lounge deck, hurriedly wrapped in her wrinkled day-dress and jacket, it had been a trying encounter.  Evelyn was well-used to holding her ground with lists of practical facts, like bringing out a particular book passage that implied how much space Hamunaptra allegedly covered, listing how many resources they’d need to properly catalogue even a fraction of that area, and how impractical it was to plan an expedition of such significance with only three people to provide the labour.  She felt she was doing rather well, and had even managed to keep all mention of the map and key safely away from any prying American ears; a fact that she _knew_ the Colonel noticed.  In the end, the Americans seemed to take a liking to the Colonel’s military rank (as much as they appeared to trip over themselves to offer safe guardianship to a _mere_ _woman_ who’d suffered a traumatic invasion of her privacy and threat against her life) and the Colonel had agreed that many hands would make the expedition quite safer.  

Which was when someone had remarked that there was smoke in the air, and the guide, Mister Gabor, had run down the deck with his arms wheeling about like sticks and his voice shrieking that the Colonel’s cabin had burst into flames due to a curse.

Of course, one of the Americans, Mister Burns, had merely crowed, “Hey boys!  Shows we’re on the right track now, aren’t we?”

Perhaps Jonathan was right.   _Americans_.  

It hadn’t let up, either.  The rest of the expedition by land had been plagued with near-misses and frightful annoyances.  Horses shied and spooked at nothing in the height of the day. Reins and straps were cut just enough to give way at the most inconvenient moment.  Locusts somehow found their way into the feed bags. Just this past morning, the Colonel had taken a sip from his waterskin and immediately spat out a mouthful of watery blood.  

“Only goat’s blood,” insisted one of the hired porters when they tried a sip, but Beni had bawled on and on about curses and plagues, and now most everyone was starting to get a little jittery.  

Not Evelyn, though.  She, more than anyone else in the whole expedition, had reason enough to fear curses, but Evelyn was perfectly secure in her theory that the lot of it was nothing more than poppycock and superstition, or... someone deliberately trying to sabotage the expedition.

Unfortunately, not everyone agreed; or if they did agree, they still managed to turn it around to mock her.  It was now to the point where the academic leading the American group, Dr. Chamberlin, had laughed when Evelyn declared her intentions to make a map of the city before any dig site could be identified.  Actually, he’d not even bothered to look her way, making a little huff. “Perhaps spending some time away from the expedition would wisest, Miss _Carnahan_.”  And _then_ he’d laughed, like her name, her _parents’_ name, was all part of the joke.

And that… that stung in ways that Evelyn had thought she’d buried deeper than any lost Egyptian city.  

At least Jonathan had declared he would come with her, his own spine ramrod-straight and his gun held properly up with a terrible dignity.  At least she’d heard Mister Burns and Mister Daniels giving Dr. Chamberlin a rather unkind few words for sending ‘the pretty bird’ away. Misplaced sympathy was still sympathy, more or less.  

She _did_ really need to sketch out the lay of the city, if she was to properly anticipate where she might find an artefact or two of particular interest.  The city had such a sprawl that she couldn’t really afford to direct a dig in an area that was merely a several thousand year old stable, or storage closet -- and that was merely what was _above_ the ground, or used to be.  Evelyn squinted at the lay of a fallen pillar toward the southern quarter, then made a soft pencil mark on her gridded paper, then flipped to a corresponding page in one of her more helpful books.  “Now that could be an entrance. According to the Bembridge scholars, if this sunken structure _here_ was a temple, along the eastern wall… this could possible be the accompanying _Sah-Netjer_.  The preparation room.  See here, Jonathan?”

“Dear sister, how can you make sense of any of this?  It’s all sand, and rock lumps, and holes hiding under or in between the sand and the lumps.  And, theoretically, gold somewhere under that.” Jonathan adjusted his pith helmet again and wriggled slightly on his little folding stool.  He’d been sitting there for hours; likely his backside had fallen asleep, but he’d yet to complain a word.

“Well, it’s in the way the stones _make_ the lumps, Jonathan.  It’s like how you can tell whether a man’s hiding his keys or his pocketbook in each of his pockets.  There’s a pattern to it.”

Jonathan’s helmet wobbled as he turned to glare warily at her.  “You’re not supposed to know I can do that.”

“Oh please, you used to steal candied figs from my pockets and replace them with dead bugs.  Even when I tried carrying rocks in my pockets to throw you off.”

“I might’ve, but you weren’t supposed to know _how_ I did it.  You have your trade secrets, I have mine.”  With a sigh, Jonathan lurched himself up from the stool and limped over to Evelyn’s side.  He carried the rifle in the crook of his arm, and for a moment he looked so much like their father that Evelyn felt a pang in her chest.  “But if we’re not going to have those anymore… so _that_ set of lumps means a temple?”

Evelyn cleared her throat and spread a smoothing hand over the rolled paper spread over a flat rock.  “According to the Bembridge scholars, yes. Given Seti’s significance in the very creation of Hamunaptra, I assumed the temple structures would be similar to those constructed in his name in Abydos.  That would suggest the columned hall here as the entrance, facing the northeast. Then limestone and sandstone walls further in, and this part where the sand’s all sunken - that should be the Osireion, the subterranean structure that served as a symbolic tomb for Osiris.”

“Osiris.  Lotta gold associated with that chap.”

“Ooooh!”  Evelyn swatted him in the arm.  “Do you have even the slightest academic bone in your body?”

“And end up like that Chamberlin fellow?”  Jonathan shuddered theatrically. “I bloody well hope not.  But I thought you weren’t bothering with Osiris. You wanted that Anubis statue, over there.”  

“Well, I did, until I got up here and got myself some space to think.”  Evelyn picked up a red bit of chalk and started sketching a new set of lines onto her map.  “So Anubis is… here, yes? Off to the side, standing over the _Sah-Netjer_ area.  Of course, that follows.  He’s the god of mummification and the shepherd to the souls of the underworld, so his statue would be present in such a space.”

“Naturally,” Jonathan answered, not at all naturally.

Evelyn drew a wide circle around a spot on her map that was directly opposite the _Sah-Netjer_ , to the west.  “Well, there’s a sinking point of _something_ over here, too.  Something underground.  Possibly something that _isn’t_ to be expected from looking at the Seti’s temple in Abydos.”

Jonathan leaned in with a much more interested smile growing on his face.  “Go on?”

“And then I thought about it some more.  Do you remember what I told you about the Book of Amun Ra?  All the old stories Father used to tell us?”

“Only the bits about ‘solid gold’.”  

Evelyn swatted him again.  “About the _location_ , Jonathan.”

“That it’s… here?”

“According to Bembridge scholars,” and she flipped through her extremely annotated diary, “Anubis is also the herald of judgment, and would serve as escort to the scales that would separate the worthy from the evil.  Quite a few of the Bembridge translations imply that the one who stood at Osiris’ side would bear the book of Amun Ra, or they gifted it to the priesthood’s care, it’s all a little poetic. They _assume_ it means Anubis.”  Then she paused. She glanced significantly down at her map with its circled mystery area.  And waited.

It took Jonathan a moment.  Two moments. He glanced back at the map, then Hamunaptra below.  Then-- “But it doesn’t specify _which_ side of Osiris, does it?  The _Sah-Netjer_ is to the east of the Osireion, but then what’s at the west?”

“Ex _actly_!”  Evelyn beamed at her brother.  “Dr. Chamberlin is set on excavating the base of the Anubis statue, but I think I might have found something he missed.  It’s worth showing to the Colonel to convince him to bring the key out from wherever he’s hidden it, and if we can’t borrow some of the diggers, then… then we’ll just have to do it ourselves.”

 

\--

 

Crawling just shy of the crest of the rocky outcropping above the Carnahan siblings’ heads, Rick O’Connell dropped his face into the sand so he wouldn’t slap himself in frustration.  

Okay.  New plan.


	7. Ardeth

“No.”  Ardeth’s black robes billowed and snapped like a terrible stormcloud coursing through the camp toward his tent. With the way anyone in his path immediately shrank back, perhaps his eyes were also spitting lightning.

Pity it did nothing to deter the one following behind him.

“I can still--”

“No.”

“But--”

“The matter is decided.”

“You can’t just--”

Ardeth spun in place and bellowed so furiously he startled the horse waiting by his tent.  “ _I_ _can and I have_!”  The expression on his face must have been impressive; O’Connell actually stopped in his tracks and shut his mouth with a click.  

“I have ordered an attack on the expedition camp.” Ardeth continued, voice lower but still furious.  Around them, the Medjai camp bustled with activity and noise. Guns and sword belts clattered, ammunition clicked as it was loaded, horses stamped and snorted, and the murmurings of prayers painted a mood of dreaded anticipation.  It was not often that the Medjai engaged in frontal assaults, but their hand been forced. “We must drive them out _tonight_ , because your ridiculous plan _failed_ , O’Connell.  Your attempt at intimidation, the sabotage of their supplies, the ancient traps - it has done nothing to deter your Colonel or the others.  Nor have you recovered the key. You are crippled by your sympathies to these intruders and thieves.”

“They are _not_ all the same--”

“They knock on the very doors of Hamunaptra, ripping treasures from the sacred chambers!  It is only a matter of time before they find the Creature, and the tools for his awakening!  This is an outcome we _cannot_ accept!”

“But you _can_ accept more death on your conscience.”  O’Connell’s hands were in fists at his sides, knuckles straining white, but the sight only made Ardeth more incensed.

“To protect the _world_ from the Creature?  Let me think. _Yes!_ ”  Inside his tent, Ardeth began the process of belting on every one of his weapons; a very precise pattern of guns, blades, and ammunition, carefully calculated so that none of them would interfere with the other in the heat of battle.  He knew O’Connell would follow; the man had no sense of when to stop clinging to an argument. “I’ve long known you do not respect the threat the Creature represents. I’ve known it. I’ve even pitied it. But I will no longer tolerate it.  You mock the Medjai’s most sacred calling with plotting these… these false curses and plagues. Three thousand years of uninterrupted _service_ to the Pharaoh--”

“ _The_ _Pharaoh isn’t here_!”  O’Connell surged right up into Ardeth’s face and grasped his sword arm, lip curled and face flushed.  “Seti and all the others, they’re _gone_.  He’s out there under the sand, and his time is _done_.  You have spent three thousand years serving a _memory_.”

Ardeth pulled roughly, but O’Connell held him fast and did not back down, like a lion with its prey.

“I know you know it, but do you know _why_ I don’t believe in your Creature, Ardeth?  Because there aren’t Creatures up here in this world, there’s only _people_.  There’s good people who just want to get through the day and go home, and there’s _evil_ people who send the good ones to die alone and in fear.  There’s only people up here, Ardeth, but you’ve already decided they’re _less_ important than a Pharaoh dead in the ground.”

A stillness clutched the air in the tent, like the claw-curled fingers of the dead themselves.  Ardeth’s blood chilled even as his face went hot. He jerked away from O’Connell, successfully this time.  “Leave us.”

O’Connell’s expression hardened.  “That’s all you have to say? Ardeth, there’s enough blood soaked into Hamunaptra’s sand.  You’re not protecting the world if you add more.”

The sound of Ardeth’s sword clearing his belt rang clear and piercing through the tense moment.  He did not point it at O’Connell, but it did not matter. In a draw, Ardeth had no equal among the Medjai.  “You have been my brother, so I give you the gift of your life. Leave this place, or die.”

Ardeth could have demanded that O’Connell relinquish his sword.  He could have commanded O’Connell to scour the Medjai tattoos from his skin with sand.  He could have even denied O’Connell his horse, a sentence all but equal to death this far from civilization, and would have been completely within his rights to do so… but he did not.  He only watched, unmoved as a statue by his tent, as O’Connell rode away into the evening that painted the dunes dark blue and purple with rippling shadows.

O’Connell looked back once, staring at Ardeth with anger in his eyes, but also with pity.  Then he was gone.

He’d had taken a risk, bringing an outsider into the Medjai; Ardeth had known that with every waking breath of the last three years.  Part of him had been waiting, dreading this moment as if it were inevitable, and in a way it felt like relief. All Ardeth had to do was stand his ground, and then go defend the thing that was his life, his birthright.  Things would be easier now.

 _… but it would be easy, and it would be cruel, for it was easy to be cruel._ Ardeth felt a great heaviness of mourning crack at his chest.  If it was easy and cruel, was it _right_?

That was the trouble with cracks in the desert; cracks let sand in, and doubt needed only a single grain.


	8. Evelyn

Hamunaptra in the daylight was glorious, but in the dark, it was a place of nightmares.  The difference was palpable even underground, as if the nighttime chill were a living thing that latched onto one’s clothing, under the skin, and burrowed up the length of one’s spine.  

Evelyn had so dearly hoped to never think of _that_ horrible image again.  She covered her mouth and breathed in quick little sniffs until the nausea passed her by.  

In the torchlight, the open chamber housing the statue of Horus was too open, with wide corridors and no furniture or rubble to hide behind.  Every tap of her hammer and chisel on the base of the statue sounded far too loud in the space, and Evelyn’s hands shook every time she heard an otherworldly moan sound from somewhere deep in the temple, like an answer.  Was it getting closer? Was that a shuffle of some withered, cloth-wrapped foot in the dark, or was that only her brother pacing the circle of torchlight with a pry-bar held high and shaking?

Evelyn swallowed, breathed, and gently pried the panel open a little further.  She could do this. She _would_ do it… because quite frankly, it wasn’t as if she had any other options worth entertaining, thank you very much.  

“Any moment now, Evy?”  Jonathan gave the pry-bar a few swings, as if he were weilding a golf club.  It had certainly proved an effective approach to dispatching those terrible scarabs as they’d erupted from the sand.  “Please?”

Being in the temple had saved them.  Being in the temple _on their own_ had saved them, and knowing that fact still made Evelyn’s hands tremble.  

Of course the Colonel had not let them borrow any of the American’s diggers, waving off Evelyn’s request as if shooing a fly.  “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve found a route to a major chamber, and several major artefacts elsewhere. Every hand will be needed for hauling.”

“H-hauling?”  Evelyn did her best to follow Colonel Guizot through the sudden chaos of the camp.  Every spare man seemed to be running madly, fetching sacks, baskets, a wheelbarrow, even the canvas of a tent, trailing its ropes and pegs.  The main entry point to the _Sah-Netjer_ had been broadened and bolstered with several ladders and a ramp for supporting heavier loads.  Bags and sacks were being flung down, faster than was safe, things were being brought _out--_

Gold.  Armful upon armful of golden cups, coins, busts, jewels, and more.  Small statues. Panels. Mirrors. A squarish chest with a set of canopic jars behind an ornamental side panel.  A _sarcophagus_ , wrapped up in ropes and being hauled up with pulleys and straining diggers.  Evelyn’s heart leaped into her throat, and the fact that she had to grasp Jonathan’s arm to steady herself was probably the only reason her brother did not bolt into the growing pile of treasure and dive in.  Possibly the only reason Evelyn didn’t either. _The wealth of Egypt_ \--

“--if you want to go off on a silly search for some _book_ that’s no doubt already turned to dust, then perhaps it’s best you do go.  We have real work to do here."

The illusion shattered, and a lump in Evelyn’s throat took its place.  “I-I beg your pardon?”

Colonel Guizot didn’t even look at Evelyn.  His eyes were transfixed on the treasure as he patted her shoulder condescendingly.  “Run along, librarian. Go find your storybook.”

To Jonathan’s credit, he didn’t make a scene.  He’d fixed the Colonel with an icy glare and stayed at Evelyn’s side as she’d turned away with her head held high and her cheeks flushed with red spots.  “Chin up, old mum,” he whispered, and Evelyn managed a slightly watery smile.

Run along, _librarian_.  Yes, she _was_ a librarian.  And she _was_ going to find her storybook, because there was more to history than gold.  “Thank you, Jonathan.” She’d dashed a bit of dampness from her eyes, and squared her shoulders.  “Come along. We’ve work to do.”

She’d also witnessed a little scene as she backtracked to fetch her toolkit from beside the main campfire.  It seemed so inconsequential, then.

“We are rich, my good friends!”  Mister Gabor had slung his arm around Mister Henderson’s shoulder as the diggers brought up sack after sack of gold.  “Rich beyond any wildest dream! I knew I had a good feeling about you.”

Mister Henderson had moved away from Mister Gabor with an expression like he wanted to go wash.  “Yeah, yeah. Ease up on the declarations, you’ll still get paid when we get back to the real world.”

“S-say what?”

“Guides get paid guide fees.   _Finders_ get a full share.”  Mister Henderson slapped Mister Gabor on the shoulder.  “Don’t worry, Burns’ll probably give you a bit of a tip.  You did a good job, guide!”

The look on Mister Gabor’s face… Evelyn would have felt sympathy or offered a word of commiseration if he had not looked so _furious_ , and yet smiled at Mister Henderson’s back as he walked away.  She had taken her tool kit and hurried after Jonathan toward the temple, to find Horus.  

Horus, a guardian god.  The symbolism of it all was not lost on Evelyn, especially now as she eased the panel away from the statue’s base.  Inside was a cavity, and she could see the rough weave of a protective bit of fabric around something broad and rectangular.

They’d only just found the statue, and Evelyn had felt a gentle bit of awe and delight as she stared up at the hawk’s sleek head, unmarred by thousands of years of the elements; it was right then when they’d felt the rumbling in the stones around them.  Evelyn and Jonathan hadn’t even hesitated. They’d both dropped their tools and _ran_ ; with Jonathan cursing mightily at _bloody Americans_ and _bloody dynamite_ and _hire a bloody engineer next time you’re going to get someone killed you greedy Yanks_ with every other step.  

But the rumbling hadn’t stopped.  As they made it to the surface and rounded the corner of the main temple structure, the rumbling rose to a terrible whine, a droning--

No, it was _screaming_.  

The evening sky had turned black with millions upon millions of wings, of locust and blackfly and worse.  The sands of Hamunaptra glittered… no, not sands, but the dark rainbow sheen of scarab shells teeming over the dunes with their shrieking wings.  Evelyn and Jonathan stopped so suddenly they collided and fell alongside a collapsed tent; they could only stare in horror as the rest of the scene unfolded in front of their eyes.

The heavy sarcophagus had been opened.  Something was _howling_ from within, and a cloud of sand billowed and twisted from it like a living thing.  Evelyn’s mouth went dry; there was a _face_ in the sand cloud, a face with a mouth that opened so wide, _too_ wide.  It whirled around the silhouettes of the Americans like it might eat them up, but they did not run.  They fired their guns into the air wildly, desperately, but there was nothing but sand to hit.

There was another shape, another person crouched low beside the open sarcophagus for a bit of shelter: Mister Gabor.  He was still smiling _that_ smile, and clutched a strange-looking rectangle of glossy black metal in his hands… was it a book?   _And he had the puzzle key_.  

“Evy… come on Evy, let’s be going now.  Please?” Jonathan tugged at her arm, though she was quite certain neither of them knew what they could be possibly looking at, let alone where to run.  It had to be a hallucination, nothing more than a fever brought on by stale air belowground. It had to, even as Evelyn felt the sting of sand upon her cheek--

One of the figures in the middle of the sandstorm managed to tear free from the scouring winds.  Battered and barely recognizable but for the scrap of fez still clinging to his head, Dr. Chamberlin’s eyes rolled wildly for help, _and locked directly with Evelyn_ _where she stood in the temple’s shadow_.  

“ _Find the book!_ ” he’d wheezed as the air left his lungs, and then--

And then Jonathan had grabbed her by the arm and hauled her back into the temple as fast as he could drag her.  

“I don’t know about you, but I’m reconsidering my professional stance on curses,” Jonathan announced, as if they were back in the library and not pulling a heavy artefact from the statue of Horus in the buried tunnels of Hamunaptra.  

“You’re… not… _ooof_ , helping!”  It was heavy, at least.  Evelyn supposed that was a good sign.  They set it on the ground and Evelyn started unfolding the wrappings.  “Now there’s no way to know if this is the correct book, or the Book of Amun Ra… or, or even what we’re supposed to do with it, or _why_ , or--”

“I’m going to take a fantastic leap of intuition, dear sister, and think we’re probably supposed to read it.”  Jonathan worked furiously at a knot of fabric that refused to tear open.

“And what exactly is _that_ supposed to accomplish?”

“Another supposition, but I would like to believe it would do something constructive about the curse of Hamunaptra.”

“Jonathan, you are being a superstitious _child_!”

“I am making perfectly logical decisions based on the information I have been given!”

“We don’t _have_ any information!  All we have is--” The wrappings finally fell away, and Evelyn gasped aloud.  The golden cover and hinges of the metal-paged book seemed to give off more light than their torch.  Every cartouche and symbol beamed brightly, as if the spiky depression of the locking mechanism were the sun itself, come to life.  It felt _warm_ under Evelyn’s fingertips.  “It’s… it’s the Book of Amun Ra.”  

“Uhh, Evy?”

There was now a silhouette at the end of the long corridor leading to the chamber of Horus… but it wasn’t that of a man.  It stood like one, mostly, but Evelyn saw the way torchlight shone _through_ it in fist-sized patches.  A wave of mustiness and preservative resin wafted forth; the scent of death, prolonged for three thousand years.  Evelyn stared, transfixed, as the creature’s withered body began to fill with flesh. Dried bandages fell uselessly away from bronze skin, torchlight glittered on bared muscles and a bare head, and in a set of dark, hungry eyes.  

“Oh,” Evelyn breathed.  “Oh, dear.”

It was enough of a noise that the man-shaped creature’s gaze snapped to them both.  He smiled, and it did not make him look any less monstrous. He hefted the black weight of that metal book with one hand as if it were mere paper, and in the other he held a dagger that appeared much too sharp for Evelyn’s peace of mind.  

Evelyn reflexively lifted the Book of Amun Ra in her arms like it could shield them--

\--and the creature’s expression fell.  For a moment, Evelyn saw him feel _fear_ .  Not of her, certainly not, but at _something_ in her direction.  She glanced down at the golden cover and its decorative inscriptions… only it was certainly _not_ decorative, not to her eye.  She knew the heiroglyphs, as surely as she knew the back of her own hand; this had syntax, form… it was an _incantation_.  A book.  Full of words.  Full of _her_ weapons.  

Evelyn stared down the monster, took a breath, and began to read.  “ _Keetash… naraba… rasheem ooloo Kashka, Hootash im Ahmenophus!”_


	9. Rick

This was how Rick O’Connell came to be a believer.  

It started rather quickly when he found himself cornered right next to an open hole in the ground by a wave of chittering, shrieking scarab beetles at the excavation opening that led to the _Sah-Netjer_ of Hamunaptra.  Rick could only run so fast, and there were far too many of them that could be shot with only the revolvers in his belt; even if Rick _did_ have enough ammo, he was fairly certain the bugs wouldn’t be so kind to stop to let him reload every six shots.  

In his life, Rick had seen his share of desert weather, certainly.  He’d seen entire camps buried in less than an hour of blowing sand. He’d seen a mild earthquake shake the dunes so thoroughly that a whole train engine had sunk all the way to its smokestack.  

Never before had Rick seen a camp like the one in Hamunaptra, where dead locusts, flies, and sand had centered around such a perfectly undisturbed point like the open sarcophagus.  The sand was not quite so deep that it could completely obscure the lumps that had once been people; a brown epaulet with shiny brass buttons was just visible at the crest of one of the dunes.  He’d thought he’d feel satisfied, but he passed the fallen colonel by feeling only a grim sort of resignation.

He’d been too late to stop whatever new disaster had befallen Hamunaptra, and now he was alone.  The Medjai would not be saving him again.

All the hairs were up and prickling on the back of his neck and down his arms.  The cold sense of wrong he hoped to never experience again had returned with such strength that Rick could honestly say, for the first time in many years, he was well and truly _afraid._

Of course, it was right about then the wave of scarabs had bubbled up from the sand at Rick’s feet like an oil slick, and soon Rick was too busy to be afraid.  

The first few shots from his guns had proved their uselessness against so many small targets, but at least he still had his sword, and swung it left and right like a farmer’s scythe.  The bugs stayed back, but Rick could already feel the repetitive burn in his arm. This was not good. This was _not--_

The rippling roar of a thrown torch swept end-over-end through the air and landed in the thick of the scarab cluster.  They let out a terrible squeal and retreated from the flames. A second and third torch sent them back further… and help had come from _above_?  Rick snatched up the nearest torch and gave it a few extra sweeps against the scarabs for good measure, then twisted to look.

“O’Connell!”  Ardeth stood tall on the excavation scaffolding, and flung the hoist rope down to Rick.  “Grab it!” The scarabs were rebounding again. Ardeth took up a digger’s oil lantern, aimed carefully, and flung it right by Rick’s feet in a burst of glass and fire -- barely a moment after Rick leaped for the rope and hung over the excavation hole like a fish on a line.   Scarabs milled around the uneven edge, then poured over it and were gone in search of easier food.

The silence was rather heavy for a moment, with Rick swinging on the rope and Ardeth looking down from above.  “So, ah… down or up?”

With a wry, weary smile, Ardeth wrapped the hoist rope around his hand and pulled Rick up to the platform proper.  They brushed the sand from their robes, checked for stray scarabs, and both waited awkwardly for the other to be the first one to speak.

“Perhaps… we were both wrong, and we were both right.”  

Rick glanced up quickly.  “You’re not shot, are you?  Because I’ve only ever heard those words from someone that’s been shot.”

“The Creature has been awakened.”  Ardeth fixed Rick with a look that was one part weary and one part still very furious, but at least a part and a half remorseful.  “You came here to protect the people. You came alone. Only a Medjai, a _true_ Medjai, would do so without hesitation.”

“For all the good it did.”  Rick looked out over the camp, then down at the excavation hole.  “Do you think there might be anyone still alive down there?"

“Yes.”  Ardeth gave a faint shrug.  “And no.”

They descended the scaffolding, still keeping a wary eye out for anything dark and insect-like.  Ardeth picked one of his thrown torches from the sand. He coaxed the feeble flame back to like and offered it out for Rick to take.  “Come. I have my duty to perform… and I would be honored if you were at my side.”

The grimness in Rick’s chest hardened into something very much like resolve, and he took the torch.  It wouldn’t be the first time he stared down his own doom within Hamunaptra’s walls. Perhaps this time it would take.  “What does the _hom-dai_ say we’ll find down there?”

“Death.”

 

\--

 

The _hom-dai_ had never said anything about _this_.

In the funerary chamber, in the darkest and deepest level of Hamunaptra, Rick and Ardeth found the woman with tightly-pinned curls brandishing a heavy golden book like a holy shield as ten heavily armed _mummies_ clustered around her like a pack of guard dogs.  They were very clearly _mummies_ , too; Rick could count every rib and bone popping through their dried and shrunken flesh, and dust puffed from their joints as they moved with swords and spears at the ready.  Opposite her stood a man in priest robes, _old_ priest robes, with a black book and dozens of twisted, fumbling corpses crawling from the floors, from the walls, from _everywhere_ as he shouted and raved.  

Right then, Rick _knew_.  He laid his eyes upon the priest, heard the voice that rasped ancient Egyptian with a fluency that sent chills down his spine, and he _knew_.  All of the stories, all of the terrible rules of the _hom-dai_ curse Ardeth had taught him with such gravitas that should have been laughable.  Rick looked and saw a Creature from beyond the grave, calling _more_ creatures from beyond the grave, things that could never, ever be human again.

His heart might have frozen, not only in terror but also in the shock of seeing _wider_ , knowing _more_ , except--

Except Evy’s voice rang out crisply, and the mummified soldiers cut down the priest’s minions as surely as wheat.  

Also, Evy’s rail of a brother was scrapping with Beni by the chamber stairway.  They flailed and scratched at each other with bloody knuckles, grabbing and grabbing _back_ at the familiar shape of that damned puzzle key.  

For a moment, the two Medjai looked at each other.  Rick found it a little reassuring that Ardeth looked just as poleaxed as he did.

“Excuse me!”  Jonathan had managed to hook one of his arms behind Beni’s neck in a half-Nelson hold, and wrenched the key into his possession.  He waved it furiously at the two newcomers as Beni thrashed mightily. “You look to be of the living, so… a little help? If you’re not too _busy!_ ”  Another twist from Beni and the key burst loose from Jonathan’s grip in a perfect arc.

Like catching a perfect pop fly in baseball, all Rick had to do was lift his hands; the key sailed neatly down to smack against his palm.  

Ardeth lifted his sword high and made an odd face, as if he couldn’t quite believe the words shaped by his own mouth.  “O’Connell… _help her_.”  Then he charged toward the Creature, bellowing fearlessly.

Granted, Rick barely believed it either, but barely still counted.  

It all got a little chaotic.  A little _more_ chaotic.  Rick couldn’t exactly stroll to Evy’s side with a battle in the way.  Swords hummed through the air. Spears punctured clear through dead tissue and clanged into the chamber’s stone floors. Rick leaped over a swarm of spare arms and severed heads that had managed to pull a soldier down in the same manner as the scarabs.  The mummified soldiers were strong, and they fought fiercely, but the priest pulled his servants from their graves by the dozens, his incantations now tinged with desperation as Ardeth cut them down all the faster.

Rick kicked a stray skull into an ornamental pool of black, sludgy water and tripped right up against Evy’s side.  She whirled, the Book of Amun Ra swinging, and Rick was never more glad that deja vu told him to duck. “Hey!” He held up the key like a white flag.  “Take it!”

The key slapped home, twisted, and the locking mechanism released with a mighty _thunk_ .  “Hold this still, please,” Evy snapped brusquely.  She shoved the heavy book into Rick’s hands. The pages _clacked_ as she turned them, reading, murmuring, _searching_ \--  “Ah-ha!   _Kadeesh mal!  Kadeesh mal!_ ”  And her face was _alight_ as she cried the words.  “ _Pared oos!  Pared oos!_ ”

Perhaps there was a ghostly sort of light, and perhaps Rick saw something like the Anubis statue he’d stared down so long ago, and perhaps there was an anguished cry ripped from a throat that had known death, and feared it still.  It might have only been a trick of the light, because as it faded, the priest was still standing at the base of the stairs with a look of frightening despair on his face.

Then Ardeth was there with his sword like a black-robed executioner, and it was over.

But Rick wasn’t exactly looking closely.  He hadn’t needed to see what Evy’s words had done.  He’d seen _her_ as she said them, watched closely as the light sparkled in _her_ eyes, wide and stunned and _believing_.  She was horrified, certainly.  Terrified, no doubt, but she did not look away.

And.  Well.

To hell with mummies.  Rick wondered, right then, what it would be like to believe in _her._

The mummified soldiers and shrunken priests had fallen as one, and were crumbling in place with their ceremonial weapons and armor dropping like stones through spiderwebs.  Rick did his best to get to his feet without disturbing any of them; it seemed, suddenly, rude. These mummies, at least, had been on the good side. “You all right?”

Oh, she recognized him from the _Sudan_ , too, if that little glare was any proper sign, but she glanced down at the book and key in her hands with a slightly embarrassed cough.  She puffed her fallen curls out of her face and sheepishly gestured to the… well, everything around them. “I… ah, suppose you still want this back,” she said, offering out the puzzle key.

He reached forward, but only to pluck the key from her fingers and set it as far away as he could reach.  “Rick O’Connell,” he said, smiling crookedly and offering out his hand. "Evy, is it?”

She hugged the golden book to her chest for a moment, considered him, then offered out her own hand in kind.  “Evelyn,” she replied, with a hint of a smile of her own.

**Author's Note:**

> This. Fic. Ate. My. Brain. I love this movie. It is pulpy adventure incarnate. The characters are all delightful, the banter is music to my ears, and it is so much fun. Your prompt immediately started to wake things up in my brain, and then it refused to STOP (I think this is the longest fic I've ever written for Yuletide, or possibly the longest fic period). I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.
> 
> Research for this fic, including Egyptian curses as used in the movie are supported by the Mummy novelization by Max Allan Collins, and by the Mummy series wiki (AKA the Rickipedia). Which, apparently, disagree. Sometimes. I am no Egyptologist, though I would certainly like to be some days.


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